


Down By The Sea

by james



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Angst, Gen, Tight Spaces, contemplating death, enclosed spaces, threat of drowning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-31
Updated: 2010-08-31
Packaged: 2017-10-11 09:16:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/110811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/james/pseuds/james
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ser Galen and Mark threw Ivan into the chamber, then closed the hatch.  Galen called Miles to tell him just how long he had to save his cousin's life.  Ivan, however, isn't privy to what is going on outside the chamber.  Written for angst_bingo, square 'tight spaces.'  Set during 'Brothers in Arms.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Down By The Sea

Ivan tried to keep his eyes closed while he thought about the insanity that was his cousin's life, and the sheer bad luck it was that Miles was _his_ cousin and not some other poor schmuck's relative. Sometimes Ivan wondered if the superstitions were true and souls got reborn after they died and that he was working off some hellacious amount of bad karma by being dragged into Miles' schemes over and over again.

For a few minutes he entertained himself wondering what sort of evil despot he must have been to deserve Miles. But far too soon his eyes opened by reflex and the blackness filled his vision again. The smell of sea water and rancid machinery, never cleaned, filled his nostrils as his vision seemed determined to find some pinprick of light, after-images on his retinas in blues and greens and flashes of colors he couldn't name, making him believe that there was something in here with him, moving just out of his range.

Ivan choked on a laugh. Out of his range, indeed. The tiny chamber Ser Galen and that... that _clone_ had locked him in was barely large enough to pace in, except for upwards. He couldn't touch the ceiling but he'd caught a glimpse of it as they'd thrown him in and shut the hatch behind. No ladder, at any rate, so it hardly mattered how far away the ceiling was.

Couldn't reach the hatch; his hands had slipped and caught on nothing as he'd felt his way around every inch of the walls and floor. He'd cut and scraped his fingers, checking for anything he could use as a grip to climb up to the hatch, failing to find more than a sliver upon which to slice his fingertips. He'd tried pressing his arms outward, to press against them and work his way up to the hatch through sheer force. But the walls were just that bit too far apart, not even able to reach with his hands on one wall and his feet on the other.

Which meant he was stuck. Trapped in the chamber, the purpose of which he knew perfectly well. Come high tide the pipes surrounding would begin to fill, and the chamber in which he stood would become a watery grave. An evil sort of death, Ivan mused, and perhaps it was one he'd inflicted on some hapless person in that life before for which he was being punished now.

What he wouldn't give to have Miles here now, prying open the hatch and asking him how the hell he'd gotten himself locked in here.

Ivan pressed one hand flat against the interior wall, feeling the cold metal steal what little warmth was left in his hands. He tried closing his eyes again, hoping to fool his mind into thinking there was something to see if he were to open them. But the blackness was so complete and intense that he felt much like he had the first time he'd stood at a viewing field, looking out into deep space from the shuttle. A trip with his mother, Ivan all of ten years old and on his first visit to another world. They'd been going to Escobar, and at the time his mother had simply called it a shopping trip. Looking back Ivan recognised things that said there had been much more politics and diplomacy going on than buying fashionable clothing and fancy vases for his mother's sitting room, clues his mother was more involved in the running of the empire than he'd ever dreamed, as a boy.

He'd been bored out of his mind on Escobar, despite the chance to visit another planet. He'd give anything to be there now, carrying bags for his mother and being given half a dozen conflicting orders on how to behave.

Ivan tried to take a deep breath, coughing as the salt air stung his lungs. Squeezing his eyes closed again, he told himself to keep them shut this time. Pretend he was back at the Embassy, asleep. Pretend he was home, sitting in a corner at one of his mother's parties hoping no one would notice him and twitter over how adorable he was in his suit.

He shivered and tried banging on the walls once more. He'd worn himself hoarse already, shouting for anybody who might hear. An hour, or maybe only half; for all he could tell he'd been trapped here for ten minutes and Ser Galen and the clone were standing just outside, laughing their heads off at him. He banged on the walls again, feeling spots on his hands growing numb from the beating and the cold. He kicked, once, and bit back a curse.

Miles had to be out there, didn't he? Ser Galen had said he'd thrown Ivan down here as a threat for Miles to do as instructed; the implication being that Galen didn't care if Ivan lived or died, regardless of what Miles did. But Miles -- Miles was a fucking genius, and possessive as hell and wouldn't take kindly to someone _else_ killing Ivan. Miles would want that pleasure for himself -- most likely by accident, but really, did it matter as long as it was Miles, and Miles' plan, and Ivan even thought maybe he wouldn't mind so much dying if it were Miles' fault. At least then his cousin would act contrite, and have to tell his mother -- and Miles' _own_ mother -- that he'd got Ivan killed, and that he was sorry.

There would be a clip of hair from Miles' own head, cut off and burnt at Ivan's grave, and Miles might even say a few words about how sorry he was that Ivan hadn't lived to get dragooned into more of Miles' schemes.

Ivan leant his head back, staring up at nothing, for a moment not even sure if his eyes were open or closed. He bit back a yelp, and pressed the palms of his hands against his eyes. Bursts of red and blue appeared, floating in the center and around the edges of his vision like monsters creeping out of his brain and into the chamber with him. How long had he been down here? Galen had kindly told him the time of his demise -- 207, high tide. Ivan had no idea what time it was now, no idea how long it had been since he'd fallen to the floor, narrowly missing hitting his skull on the metal wall.

Maybe he had. Maybe he was concussed and hallucinating. Maybe he was safely in hospital, with Miles outside the door pacing and worrying but already planning his next great escapade starring himself and his beloved donkey, Ivan. Maybe they were already on their next great adventure, and Miles was even now telling him his role in the plan and didn't realise Ivan couldn't hear him because he was stuck in a chamber ten thousand light-years away on Earth.

Ivan tried to inhale deeply again, only remembering the that sea air would make him cough in time to stop himself from doing so. He groaned, the noise coming out half-strangled and half-desperate, and he tried again to say Miles' name.

If he were hallucinating, surely Miles would grab onto him and snap him out of it? Unless Miles were dead and wasn't available to jostle Ivan out of it. If Miles were dead and not coming to rescue him -- or if Ser Galen's demands were such that Ivan wasn't worth the exchange.

As soon as he thought it, Ivan found himself calming down. He didn't know what Ser Galen wanted from Miles. It could be anything, literally, given what Miles was capable of getting himself mixed up in. And the clone's existence said something...particularly fraught, with his taking Miles' place in the embassy. It wasn't far-fetched to think of the clone taking Miles' place on Barrayar, though what they intended to do after, Ivan couldn't begin to guess.

But it was possible, even likely, that what Galen wanted wasn't worth trading for Ivan's life. Ivan took another breath, carefully measured to not get a lungful of salt, and let it out, slowly. He placed his hands flat on the wall of the chamber.

He'd known since he'd been old enough to understand Mama's stories, that one day he could die. He knew what it meant, to be dead -- growing up with his father's grave a regular part of his life and with stories from every one of his friends about family who'd been killed one way or another. From the moment he'd picked up a stick and followed Miles into play-battle, he'd known he would be a soldier; not just a soldier, either, but a Vor.

Ivan leaned forward, resting his forehead against the smooth, cold metal wall. Not such a dignified death as the one he'd once imagined, fighting in a battle and dying in a blaze of glory. Not even the death he'd feared from time to time, dying at the hands of his cousin's insanity, accidental and foolish as his mother had often scolded him for.

But if Ser Galen laid out his trade and Miles found it unacceptable, then Ivan would die. Drowned in the chamber, with his body recovered some time later -- Miles would be sure to recover him, as soon as he could. Ivan knew that, as well as he knew his cousin would be able, if he had to, to say no.

He wondered if he would be reborn, or if he would go someplace else -- if he would find himself meeting his father, for the first time, to spend an eternity in an afterlife bliss. Neither story had ever held much appeal for Ivan, and considering it now, he wrinkled his nose. Much more likely he would simply end, the darkness filling his vision would fill his entire awareness and there would, like deep space, be nothing of him left.

Ivan turned his face towards where he thought the hatch would be, and waited to see if it would open.


End file.
